Mein Engel
by Vanilla Mochi
Summary: Grandpa met her over the wall that day... and though he saw her only once and never knew her name, she was his angel, a pillar of hope against social injustice. Warnings: AU, Background Prussia/Hungary, and one-sided Prussia/NyoCanada. UPDATE: Now with a sequel!
1. Mein Engel

**A/N: I'm sorry! I wasn't dead, I just had a ton of homework (Subject Test SAT, Finals, homework... I take a long time) Anyways... enjoy! (One more thing: the narrator is the granddaughter of Gilbert (OC) and is somewhat based off of my friend. That being said, I dedicate this story to my friend for being one of the greatest friends I could ever have and for just being plain AWESOME!)**

My grandfather was a strong man.

A man born during the 1950's, he lived twenty years of his life under the Soviet Union's occupation of East Germany. His family was split apart when he was ten. His mother, very pregnant with his younger brother, Ludwig, safe in West Berlin, while his father and he were stuck on the east side, separated by the Berlin Wall.

But that was more than fifty years ago; it's 2012 now. It seemed like a long time for me, an adolescent, but for Grandpa, it was not too long ago.

By no means, was my grandfather a grouchy old geezer; no, he claimed himself to be too awesome for that and I agree with him. He was far from that stereotype. He was obnoxious, I could tell you that. He referred to himself as the 'Awesome Me' and when I was younger; according to my Filipino mother, he managed to persuade me to call him 'Ore-sama'. Don't ask where he learned that name.

Although Grandfather was more than sixty years old, he certainly didn't act like it. His spirit was still youthful, full of life, his red eyes still brimming with energy. Time had no effect on his soul. He was just as fiery as he was fifty years ago.

He always acted upbeat about everything whenever I saw him. Actually, that was a lie. If there was anything that could shake him to the very core, it was his past.

His body was decorated with scars, wounds afflicted by so called Soviet Union 'police officers' for merely protesting against the government. If you asked him about any of them, he would tell you their story, but only up to a certain point. Though he spoke of them with evident pride and lightheartedness, the both of us knew better. In the middle of the night, whenever I stayed over, I could hear him scream in cold blood, the memories haunting his dreams. He even admitted once that sometimes his scars ached, a harsh reminder of his past.

But while his past held many totally unawesome experiences for him, Grandpa also told me it also kept many jewels that he didn't want to forget. I didn't understand what he meant until that day.

That day, we were cleaning his attic, fighting through cobwebs and dust clouds, when we came across a door, which of course, led to a room with a huge bookcase at each wall. It turns out Grandpa used that space to keep his collection of diaries (journals, he insisted), starting from when he turned five to now, as 72 year old. I initially found it strange; I never thought of him as a journal keeper, but hey, this was my Grandpa I was talking about. He was always full of surprises.

For the next few days, I spent my time with him, reading his journals (he gave me permission), under the dim light provided. Each entry, one for every day, was one page long and always started with either this: 'I'm so cool.' or this: 'I was so cool today.' But from there, he gave a full explanation of his day with great detail. The first entries, which I assumed were from a very young Grandpa, were… carefree, like he was naïve of the Soviet Union's rule. Most of them were about his 'adventures' with my grandmother, Elizabeta. For example, back in their day, my grandparents used to have contests to see who could climb up the Berlin Wall faster. Of course that ended when a particularly mean soldier named Ivan caught them in the act.

As I read more and more of the entries, I noticed they became… darker in a way. Grandpa was probably becoming aware of the political tyranny he lived under. He began to write of his frustrations about the government, his fears of starvation and the upcoming winters, and even about his scars. Although I've heard those stories, the journals gave even more detail about them than the writer ever did.

Slamming journal number 178 shut, I got up from my spot on the floor to place the diary back in its spot on the bookshelf. By this time, I was more than done reading for today. Staying cooped up in the attic was not how I intended to spend my week with Grandpa and Grandma.

But just as I shelved journal 178, a sheet of paper, folded into quarters, plopped out of Grandpa's memoir, landing soundlessly on the wooden floor. Curious, I picked it up, inspecting the contents.

It was a picture. A portrait, to be exact, of a girl.

I didn't mention this, before, did I? Grandpa, although he didn't look like it, was an excellent artist. His son once told me I inherited his artistic abilities.

Anyways, it was a picture of a girl. A beautiful one too. She could've matched my grandmother's looks as a young lady. With long curly hair tied in pigtails, she wore a beret on top, all while resting her head on her arms. Her arm covered her mouth, but her eyes told me her feelings: sleepy, waiting for something to happen, yet serene, like looking out the window on a clear day.

I kept the drawing and later asked Grandpa about it: "Grandpa, I found this in one of your journals," I started, showing him the girl, "Who is she? Your first love?"

My first guess made him laugh, "Kesese! Of course not, Birdie (my nickname)!" He slapped me on the back hard.

'Liar.' I thought; he was blushing.

He was seventeen when he met the girl in the drawing. It had been during some of the darkest times of his life. A year before, he got in trouble with the authorities for protesting against them by punching a 'police officer' in the face. That police officer was harassing Elizabeta and though he didn't know why, but Grandpa still slugged him in the face for messing with Grandma in the first place. He then proceeded to scream out in the open, 'Your government is UNAWESOME! Suck my awesome 5 meters!'

The day after the government released him was also the day he saw her, looking over the Berlin Wall from the west. He sat against the wall that day, waiting for his brother to come, so he could tell Ludwig the good news.

She, on the other hand, stood on a lower wall, high enough for her to comfortably lay her head on her arms. It was a cloudy day as she stared drowsily out in the distance, the criss-cross wire fence in front of her being her only obstacle.

My grandpa just couldn't help himself drawing her. He had this sudden urge to draw and it just so happened she was there and Grandpa didn't want to sketch anything else. Only when he was getting the finer details on paper did she notice he was watching her.

She jumped involuntarily, making Grandpa blink a couple of times. "H-hello." She stuttered a greeting, her cheeks on fire.

He raised an eyebrow, looking up at her, "Yo. What are you doing here?" He suddenly asked.

"Ah, I was j-just admiring the view. It's a beautiful day today. Reminds me of home; just without the snow." She smiled softly at the thought.

"Makes no difference to me, it's the same weather day after day." He sourly replies, closing his journal, "You're lucky that you can think that."

"Eh? I'm going to take that as a compliment." She declared, still confused, "Then what are you doing here?"

He took a deep breath, mist wheezing out his nostrils. Damn, he was acting totally unawesome to her, "I'm waiting for my brother, Ludwig, to tell him some good news."

"Good news?" Her fingers wrapped around the fence, pressing her face against it, to get a better look at Grandpa, violet eyes widen with interest, "What would that be?"

"That I just got out of jail yesterday."

"Eh? Jail? Why would you be in jail?"

"Because that goddamn commie soldier!" He cussed out, "He just loves getting me in trouble."

"What did he do?"

"He was messing with my best friend. So I slugged him in the face and I guess he just couldn't deal with the Awesome."

"Awesome?"

"Me."

"…Oh. I see." They sat in silence, the girl perched on top of the Berlin Wall, gazing at him. She leaned again the fence, "I think it's pretty brave of you to do that." She unexpectedly said after a while, piercing the stillness.

"Huh?"

"Er… I mean, well," She turned pink, her bangs quickly hiding her, "standing up for your friend and all."

Grandpa snorted, "Funny. You're the first person to think that. Vati thought it was reckless and stupid. West thought the same too." He added. A breeze of wind passed them, the girl's pigtails swaying along. He threw his head back. "Maybe I really am stupid-"

"No!" She insisted harshly, her voice suddenly softening, "What you did was not stupid! You were standing for what you thought was right!" Her breath came out in short puffs as she composed herself.

"You know, y-you remind me of my brother in that way. He's obnoxious and crazy, like you," He frowned at her. Crazy and obnoxious? He preferred to think of himself as just plain awesome, "Ah! I d-didn't mean it like that! But when Al thought something wasn't right, he never hesitated to speak up. That's how governments like yours happen; when people don't speak up." Her voice was melodious, soft like a wind chime.

"Ah!" She exclaimed, "I'm sorry; I must be boring you. What I mean to say is d-don't stop protesting; your voice is your strongest weapon."

They said nothing after that, staring up at the sky wordlessly until the girl had leave.

"MADDIE!" An earsplitting voice with an American accent shouted from over the western side of the wall, "Let's go home already! I'm freezing my balls out here!"

"Okay, okay! Coming Al!" She glanced back down at Grandpa, shade of pink at her cheeks, "B-bye." was her short farewell with a polite smile. The last thing he saw of her was her golden pigtails, flying in the air.

That was the first and last time Grandpa ever saw that girl. Opening his journal again, his albino eyes glanced over his most recent drawing.

"_D-don't stop protesting."_

"_Your voice is your strongest weapon."_

"My voice, huh?"

From then on, wherever Grandpa went, the picture went too. Shoved in his pocket, carried by Grandpa's awesome chick, Gilbird, in his hand; it didn't matter, just as long as it was with Grandpa. He kept on protesting too, walking down a long wounding road of prison sentences, torture, and heavy fines.

No one, not even Grandma, knew why he kept that sketch, let alone did they even know it was a drawing. Sometimes, when the Soviet soldiers came to his tiny village near the wall, they'd beat him, teasing him for 'worshipping a piece paper.'

But in all honesty, Grandfather could've cared less. He merely brushed the snide comments aside, like they were nothing more than a speck of dust. Besides, that picture gave him hope, a reminder of her words. A constant reminder to speak up. A reminder to never be silenced. He clung to those words desperately, like a child to his mother.

The girl became an angel to him, a saint. A little light, though tiny, that lit his dark world, controlled by the Soviets. Hope, she gave him, a resolute belief in the strength of humanity against cruelty.

However, as he got older though, he began to need the drawing less and less, starting from when he married Grandma in 1971. He forgot it for the first time, when he was at his wedding reception with Grandma. He left it in his dressing room. Ashamed at first, he soon forgot about it when Grandma kissed him on the lips. He didn't need hope anymore from the mysterious girl; Grandma already did that for him. Grandma, a woman who stood by his side through thick and thin, gave him the strength to be one of the first to start chipping away at the Berlin Wall, a role model for the other East Germans to follow on that glorious day, November 9, 1989, to join their brothers and sisters. Eventually, he tucked the picture away into his journal, where it stayed in the attic, hidden from the light.

But he never truly forgot about the girl. She still crossed his mind every now and then. Though he loved Grandmother dearly, his heart didn't fully belong to her because the girl unknowingly took a piece of his heart with her, when she left him at the wall. None of this, Grandma ever knew and Grandpa preferred it that way.

* * *

The next time I saw the picture, was six years down the road, a few days after Grandpa died. He died a quick and painless death in his sleep, much to my relief. He had suffered more than enough in the past.

The last thing I heard from him was his hearty signature laugh: 'Kesesese', after telling him how my friends and I managed to spook the pizza man into thinking we were a group of hookers (We're not really, but…). Most of the planning was thanks to yours truly.

Grandmother already passed into the next world a few years back, so after Grandpa's death, the family had no choice but to sell the place. I was cleaning-up the attic, in the midst of that, packing his journals into cardboard boxes. The picture, this time, tumbled out of journal 178, when I plucked the diary out of the shelf. It fell out, shockwaves of dust crashing out down below.

The girl looked the same, just as angelic as ever. Strange, now that I think about it, whatever happened to girl after she left Grandpa? It was a question to be left unanswered, though Grandpa always wanted to know. He assumed she got married, much to his (not) pleasure. Although that her husband would probably not be as awesome as Grandpa. I'm only wishing that Grandpa will meet her up there in heaven. Actually, I'm praying that he will. He better, to be honest.

Anyways, I noticed there was writing on the back of the sketch. With Grandfather's handwriting. Flipping the drawing around, two words were written at the bottom with great delicacy:

_Mein Engel_

_-Gilbert Beilschmidt_

**A/N: God, why are my stories always melodic? WHY? On another note, wouldn't Prussia (as a human) make an AWESOME Grandpa? You know he would! **_  
_


	2. The Angel

**A/N: Well, I wrote a sequel to Mein Engel (read it first if you haven't yet). I know some of you wanted a sequel... okay, maybe not that many, but still. The narrator of this story is the grandson of Madeline's adopted grandson: a Vietnamese-Australian boy. He's snarky, moody, gruff, and full of teenage sarcasm, but he'll always be there for his friends and family no matter what. THANK YOU TO xIsaDelx for betaing this story! Grammar is not exactly one of my strongest points. **

**Warnings: One-sided (sort of, more of that neither Gilbert or Madeline will ever know) Prussia/NyoCanada and Background Netherlands/NyoCanada, Australia/Vietnam, and England/France. AU**

My grandma was a strong woman.

A woman born during the 1950's, her mother abandoned her as a child and her father, well, he was in an affair with another lady and wanted nothing to do with Grandma. But it was a miracle, at least what Grandma told me, because her fathers, a homosexual couple, Great Grandpa Francis and Arthur, adopted her along with her twin brother, (Great) Uncle Al. As a result, Grandma, a rebellious teenager, often protested on the streets of Ottawa for gay rights and marriages. Even when people frowned upon her, laughed at her for such 'stupidity', or even beat on her, they could never silence her.

That, however, was more than fifty years ago; its 2018 now, the twelfth year anniversary of when her beloved homeland, Canada, finally legalized gay marriages.

In all honesty, Grandma and I were never blood relatives. At the age of twenty-seven, Grandma adopted a Vietnamese orphan, my mother, who then married a daredevil Aussie, my dad. And thus, that was the life story of how I came to be. But I never cared, not being related by blood to Grandma and all: Madeline Williams is and will always be my Grandma, even as I attended her funeral today. And if I knew her well enough, I'm sure she would say the same. I am and will always be her dear grandson.

She was always painfully shy and timid, that was, until we were at a Canadian ice hockey game. Then, Grandma would blend perfectly in with the screaming crowds. She'd yell "HOSER!" at the opposing team while cheering (screaming) for the Ottawa Senators. Don't believe it? Trust me, she dragged me to one too many games.

I probably shouldn't be thinking about Grandma so much right now, but I can't help it. Her funeral was today, a clear day with a sky so blue. If Grandma was alive now, she would've commented on how beautiful weather was.

I never thought she would've died so soon. At least she died in her sleep, fast and painless, and most of all, peacefully.

I was dressed in a fancy black suit and surrounded by estranged relatives and sympathetic strangers; I frowned at them. Why were they here? Did they pity her? They didn't know her nearly as well as I did. The exceptions were Mom, Dad, Grandpa, and (Great) Uncle Al.

"Hey." I jumped, startled, only to realize Uncle Al tapped my shoulder. He was unusually sullen, frowning, a big difference from his trademark grin. Sighing, he said in a matter of fact tone, "They said it's time for the burial. You should say your good-byes now." Blue eyes softened as they glazed over me, "You knew her the best." He admitted sadly.

I nodded, walking over to the coffin, in the sight of the attendees. Their whispers clouded the room like poisonous gas.

"Hey, who's that?"

"I think that's her grandson."

"Really? They don't look related…"

_Shut up._ I gritted my teeth, hands clenching.

Trying to ignore the whispers around me, I reached hand out to Grandma, stroking her aged cheek. Time had only begun to wear Grandmother down. Premature wrinkles covered her skin, the peaceful expression spread across still apparent. I let a finger twirl a little around one of Grandma's graying curls, before I overheard another stupidly disgusting conversation between strangers.

"The poor thing… she still had so much to live for."

"Well, it's not like anyone really noticed her. I don't mean to be rude, but she didn't really stand out."

_Shut up._

_I don't need your pity. And neither does Grandma._

_She's not a thing you can talk about so pathetically._

At this point, I was furious now: how dare they talk about Grandma like that!

"SHUT UP!" I yelled, whirling at them, "Don't talk about her like that! You barely even know her! Why are you even here?!" Anger rushed through my veins, it being the only thing controlling me at the moment. I stomped over to them with the intention of actually hurting them, "My grandmother is NOT some paparazzi material for you to talk about!" I would've continued, if it wasn't for my Grandfather, placing a hand on my shoulder in reassurance.

He shook his head and I could almost imagine his heavily Dutch-accented English: "They're not worth it; your Grandma wouldn't want this either."

I was such a 'Grandpa's Little Man' even to this day, which was probably why I calmed down, giving the two ladies my temper flared on, a glare. I didn't miss their exchange either.

"My, my. What a rude young man! Who raised him?" Well thank you very much, ma'am. I'm very sure my mother raised me right.

"I certainly didn't raise my son to act like that!" Don't compare your son to someone else!

I groaned, letting out a sigh of irritation, turning back to Grandma. Some people just don't have any tact, do they? The burial was soon and I knew, if I kept on looking at Grandma, I could never say good-bye. For one last time, I pulled at one of Grandma's locks, just as I did so often in the past. Her hair, once long and tied into two pigtails, now hung loose over her shoulders. A peaceful smile spread across her face; it was like she was just sleeping.

At this point, I should've closed the coffin, forever sealing Grandma from the warm sunlight she so dearly loved, but I didn't; there was one more thing I needed to do. I reached into my pocket to place two things for Grandma to keep.

The first thing was a hand-written letter I wrote. Hopefully Grandma will read it in the afterlife. The second thing was a well-used photo, creased into four pieces. As for the content, it was a photo from a bird's eye view of an albino man looking up at the Berlin Wall, or that's what Grandma said.

"_Grandma! Grandma!" Tiny hands reached at Grandma who sat on the old rocking chair, Great Grandpa Francis used to sit in. It was me, as a five year old child with a tuff of dark hair and wide eyes. I tugged at her sweatpants, wanting to be on her lap instead of her stuffed polar bear, Kumajiro._

_She smiled down at me, giving me Kumajiro to hold, "Why don't you hold Kumataro? I'm sure he'd like it very much." Then she lifted me up in steady arms onto her lap. Humming a soft tune, she rocked back and forth, looking out the window next to her. Her grip locked around me and Kumajiro like a bubble, so neither of us would fall out._

_Me, on the other hand, I couldn't see any enjoyment out of simply admiring the view; I'd rather be outside, playing in made-up adventures. Curious eyes glanced up at Grandma as if to expect for her to say something, anything._

_She finally did; her serene eyes kindly gazing at me, "Say, would you like to hear a story?"I nodded, wide-eyed; Grandma and Uncle Al always had a knack for telling good stories. Talent inherited from Great Grandpa Arthur, they said._

"_Alright then." She started, "Dear, do you have that photo I showed you once? The one I took for my old scrapbook?"_

"_You mean the one of the albino man?"_

"_Aren't you a little genius?" She chuckled a little, "You have quite a vocabulary."_

"_Mama says it's important to get a head start in education. She's making me learn a new word every day."_

"_Yes, and she's taught you well." Her eyes turned distant, lost in past memories, "I met that man when I was seventeen, ten years older than you are. Your Great-Grandfather Arthur was on a business trip to Germany in the capital-Berlin. It was winter break for Uncle Al and me, so we didn't need to be at school. During that time, I was depressed."_

"_Depressed?" I suddenly piped up, "What's 'depressed'?"_

"_It's…" she paused, trying to find the same words, "You know how you sometimes get sad, in here?" A long wrinkled finger pointed at my chest,._

"_Yeah. It sucks."_

_A cheeky statement such as that only made Grandma laugh softly, "Of course it does. It's a feeling everyone feels. Only eventually it leaves, just as it comes. Depression means that feeling never leaves. It's like sadness took a long vacation right there." She motioned at my heart._

"_Then why was Grandma so sad? Is she still depressed?"_

"_Of course not. I have you," I squirmed under her grip as squeezed me tightly, "and your Grandpa. I'm happy now. But back then, I felt hopeless. Nobody ever paid attention to me. I was practically invisible to them. And when I was protesting for gay rights, no one listened to me and if they did, they'd frown upon me, reject me. I thought nobody would care if I stopped or not."_

"_Gay Rights?"_

"_You know how your Great-Grandpa Francis and Arthur were both men, right?"_

"_Uh-huh."_

"_Well, back during my day, people considered their kind of relationship to be… wrong."_

"_Wrong? But why Grandma? You told me Great-Grandpa Francis and Great-Grandpa Arthur loved each other very much, just like any man and woman did."_

"_People just weren't very accepting back then. But anyways, back to the story, I spent most of my time at the Berlin Wall. The view was rather pretty there, even though the land on the other side was dreadful. Do you know about the Berlin Wall?" Grandma asked suddenly, looking down at her lap, "It wasn't too long when it came down."_

"_Yep. Me and Mama read about it once."_

"_Yes, the Berlin Wall separated East Berlin from West Berlin. I met the albino man over the wall one of those days. I don't exactly remember which one, but when I took that picture, for some reason, he didn't seem to notice me. He looked so grim, like he was waiting for the worst to come." Grandma paused a moment, waiting for the words to sink in, "So we sat there in silence. Him against the wall and I, looking over East Berlin. It was while before I realized he was staring at me."_

"_Why was he staring Grandma?"_

"_I honest didn't know why. And I still don't." She smiled lightly, before glancing out the window, rocking at a peaceful rhythm, "But I did know this: he was a victim of an unjust government."_

"_Unjust government? Do we live in an unjust government?"_

"_No; we don't. But for him, where he came from, they didn't have human rights like we do. The right to freely speak one's opinion, to have a trial in court. They had none of that. The man… he was placed in prison for simply defending his friend against a policemen._

"_But Grandma, I thought policemen were supposed to be good guys."_

"_They are, Sweetie. It's just that over there, they weren't. He was released from prison the day before that day. Apparently, his father thought that what he did was… reckless. I thought otherwise because for some reason, I saw myself in him."_

"_Yourself?"_

"_Yes, we were in the same situation. We were fighting for something and suffering. He was fighting to protect his friend and I was fighting for Great Grandpa Francis and Great Grandpa Arthur's rights."_

"_So," said Grandma, "I told him this: what he did wasn't stupid and two words of advice. One, to never stop using this," she tapped my mouth, smiling when I blinked, "and two, that this," she did it again, "was his strongest weapon."_

"_His strongest weapon is his mouth?" I stated, still clueless._

"_Yes. Words can have a great effect on people even if they don't listen. They'll still leave a mark in their minds. That's why I want you to promise me that you'll never stop speaking for what you believe in. The moment you stop, is the moment everything ends and you lose control over your life. That's why government like his' came to be."_

"_Okay, dear? Promise me you'll do that." She said, a warm smile almost pleading me to do so._

"_I promise you, Grandma!" _

"…_Good." She said, relieved, "Now then," She placed me on the floor with Kumajiro, standing up, dusting the imaginary dirt off her sweatpants, "you want some pancakes? I put some of the dough in the fridge earlier-"_

"_Wait, Grandma!" I suddenly exclaimed. She paused for a moment, waiting for her grandson to speak._

"_You never told me the end. What happened after that?" I asked, staring at Grandma with such innocence, "Did Grandma ever meet him again?"_

_She sighed, seating me on her lap. Long hair curls swayed next to me as she rocked back and forth. A pained look crossed her face. "No, we didn't. A little while later, your Uncle Al decided he had enough of the wall; he wanted to go home."_

"_But why?!" My outburst surprised Grandma. She jumped involuntarily. "I thought you liked him! Wouldn't Grandma want to keep talking to him?"_

"_I do. But… he's probably already forgotten about me by now. That was more than forty years ago."She said, sounding defeated._

"_Does Grandma…" I trailed off, "want to meet him again?"_

"_Well… yes..." Her voice faded into a whisper, words said slowly losing their confidence, "If I saw him again… it'd be nice to talk him again." Why were her cheeks pink?_

"_Then I'll find him!" I exclaimed. Grandma was caught off guard, as I rambled on, "I'll find him and Grandma can tell him all she wants to say, okay? It's a promise!" I held my pinky out for her. She quickly snapped back to reality._

"_It's a promise, my dear," Grandma took my pinky with her own; a thin pinky, aged with time, "Thank you, my dear grandson." She said, kissing my forehead. And then, before I knew it, she steered to a different topic like a breeze of wind._

"_Now then, why don't we have those pancakes now? I'm sure you're very hungry now…"_

* * *

A raindrop fell on Grandma's cheek. Was it raining? No, we were still in the church. I wiped the tear off, wanting no one to see. Strong boys weren't supposed to cry; I couldn't cry. I had to stay strong for Grandma. It would be shameful to Grandpa, who told me over and over again whenever the tears came, that there was no reason to cry.

Another tear dropped on Grandma's corpse. The audience was waiting for the burial, some impatient to leave, others sympathetic for Madeline Williams' grandson. Either way, I had to close the coffin now, my final goodbye to Grandma coming to an end.

By now, tears streamed down my face, my nose became runny, and I began releasing involuntary hiccups. I glanced at Grandma one last time through blurry eyes.

"Goodbye Grandma." I muttered, squeezing her hand. The coffin lid slammed shut before I backed away from her. With my jaw set firmly in place, I furiously wiped the water on my cheeks. No one would see me cry. I refuse to let anyone see. That was, until Grandpa patted my shoulder.

"I forgot to tell you, your Grandma would've want you to have this." It was Kumajiro, his fur a clean white. Even if he was just a stuffed animal, Grandma treated him like her own child.

"_Why don't you hold Kumataro? I'm sure he'd like it very much."_

I missed her voice.

"It's okay, son. It's okay." Grandpa said.

I clutched on to Kumataro like he was an angel, that tiny light glowing in my darkest hour.

* * *

"You feeling better now?" Uncle Al asked me in concern. I didn't look at him, puffy eyes still glued to Grandma's tombstone. Grandpa had placed a bouquet of red and white tulips at her grave earlier.

_Madeline Abigail Williams_

_1950-2018_

"_Love is forever immortal."_

"… Yeah." I said, not at all paying attention to him.

"If you say so." Suddenly, he grew curious, "What did you put in her coffin anyways?"

"Nothing." I said, "Nothing important." I ignored Uncle Al's whining.

"Aw, come on! You can tell me, can't you?! Pwease?!"

"If you're so curious, then why don't you ask Grandma?"

"Boo." He pouted. "You're mean."

I rolled my eyes; I swear, sometimes Uncle Al could act like such a baby.

* * *

"_Then I'll find him! I'll find him and Grandma can tell him all she wants to say, okay? It's a promise!" _Those were the words of a naïve child, unblemished by skepticism and doubt. However, that child grew up over time and he realized how utterly unrealistic his promise was. He gave up on his chances of finding the man at the wall. But he never forgot his vow.

What are the chances of me finding the man Grandma talked to over the Berlin Wall? A one in an eight million chance. Even if he did have red eyes, white hair, and unnaturally pale skin, he could've moved from East Berlin after the wall was destroyed to, oh I don't know, Madagascar? The possibility was practically, no, it was zero. Perhaps Grandma met him up there; at least she'd get her wish. I only wished I could've helped her find him.

Which was funny, because I ended up finding him anyways; that was, after marrying his granddaughter, of course.

**A/N: Hope you enjoy reading! To be honest, Madeline's grandson was supposed to be more polite and mild, but I ended writing him up more like this. Hm, it's not bad, I kind of like him like that. He's a wild boy, a troublemaker, but also a hard-worker in school. He tends to get into arguments with his mom and when he's really bad, his dad. However, he has a huge amount of respect for his grandparents (not Uncle Al). It's no wonder why he took Madeline's death badly.**

**Okay, enough with the background information, thank you and Mochi-kun (me!) is signing out!**


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